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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593288">orange death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/soljoe/pseuds/soljoe'>soljoe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Reservoir Dogs (1992)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Other, Second Person Perspective, freddy decides actually that he hates cops, mentions of getting shot and violence at some parts but ... thats just reservoir dog, post-movie contemplation, this can be white/orange shippy if you Want it to be in your imagination!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:48:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/soljoe/pseuds/soljoe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>freddy newandyke lives and larry dimmick does not. maybe being a hotshot cop isn't what he wants after all, not after everything.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Freddy Newandyke &amp; Lawrence Dimmick, Mr. Orange &amp; Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>orange death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been hours and you’ve been bleeding out and nothing is real anymore – every edge has been dulled with blood loss as you crawl towards death, almost to the point where you just want to laugh. The situation at hand is so far from being a laughing matter and yet something within you flutters with amusement. There’s a cop on the ground drenched in gasoline, missing an ear, who’s dead. Blonde’s across the room, and he’s dead too, because you shot him. God, it feels like everybody’s dead at this point, and you are, too. The only thing that keeps you from laughing – that pulls you back to reality and reminds you that this is, in fact, the worst moment of your entire life and possibly the very last – is Larry, who is presently holding you in his arms, sweaty and tearful and covered in your blood. </p><p>	“I’m a cop, Larry,” you say, your mouth filled with wet copper, green eyes finding their way up to him and brimming in equal measure with tears. Pain and regret. You wish there was something you could do to assure him in the same way he’s assured you but there’s nothing. You almost wish he’d kill you already so you wouldn’t have to see him looking at you like this. “I’m sorry,” you say, but it’s barely a whisper. A groan escapes him like you’ve stabbed him, and that almost hurts you more. Despite the fact that you can feel him pressing the barrel of the gun against your face, still you grasp at his free arm to hold you – all at once the comforter and the murderer. Maybe you’re selfish like that. Maybe he’s both good and bad like that. </p><p>	“I’m sorry,” you say again, but you’re looking into the eyes of a dead man. The worst part is is that you wish Larry would look at you like he hates you. The worst part is is that Larry is looking at you like he still <i>loves</i> you. </p><p>What happens next happens in a millisecond. Several guns fire and your eyes close and you’re almost certain that you’ve been the victim of at least one of them … but the moment ceases, crawls forward, and you’re still lying there – yes, in his arms -- with the selfsame ebb and flow of the painful bullet in your gut. And then suddenly it’s paramedics and they’re putting you on a gurney and putting you on oxygen and they tell you later you were gritting your teeth and saying, “Larry. Larry.” until they inevitably put you under.</p><p>Then you wake up in a different world and your little sister is sitting beside you with a cup of coffee in hand, saying, “Hey, Dirty Harry.” and you decide then and there with a dry, uncomfortable swallow you don’t want to be a police officer anymore. Maybe you never even did in the first place. Not really. </p><p>“Hey,” you reply, and try to move a little – but your body is stiff as a mannequin’s. Feels like you’ve been under ice for a century and they’re just now managing to thaw you out.<br/>
“Brought you your comics,” she says helpfully, gesturing to a small stack of silver-age beauties you’ve collected over the last couple years. Fantastic Four. You glance at them like they’re nothing more than scraps of newspaper, with a small, yet appreciative, “Oh.”</p><p>“We thought we lost you, you know – dummy.” She lovingly chides, and when you really get a good look at her you can see she’s been crying a little. She’s grasping onto the paper cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. “You lost a lot of blood. Like – <i>a metric fuck ton</i> of blood.”</p><p>“I know,” you say in a breathless chuckle, looking up at the white paneling of the ceiling. “I know. Sorry.”<br/>
“It’s a miracle you’re still alive.” She said, kindly. </p><p>Thinking about Larry’s gun pressed against the skin of your face, against your temple. If you close your eyes you can imagine the exact pressure. Your throat becomes tight, your eyes hot. It didn’t feel like a miracle, and you sure as shit didn’t feel lucky or happy to be here. You felt like you chewed up a man who trusted you and loved you and then spat him out moments before he died. You felt like a monster and the fact that you lived to have to deal with that felt like hell on earth. “Sarah,” you say in the sort of whine that comes before tears, and, unable to think of any more eloquent way to say things, cry, “—this has all been incredibly fucking – <i>fucked up!”</i> </p><p>“Freddy…” immediately she comes closer to your side, both of her hands holding one of yours as you break into a fit of sobs. “Freddy – it’s okay. You’re safe now.”<br/>
“I’m a fucking pig!” You’re not listening to her. “Fuck, I’m a – fucking monster!”<br/>
“Freddy, don’t say that! It’s all over with now, it’s all done with.” Tears spring into her eyes to see you in such anguish, and you hear her turn and call for a nurse, but that’s scarcely on your mind. Everything is so fresh in your head all of a sudden like a band-aid that’s been freshly ripped off a wound, and grief washes over you like a violent tide. Abruptly, you yank your hand from Sarah’s, grabbing your badge on the bedside table the chucking it at the wall. It lands on a framed glass picture, which shatters and falls along with it. You don’t remember much after that – a nurse and doctor came in, and you fell asleep again. </p><p>	“Now, tell me again, Officer Newandyke… what is the reason for your resignation?” Your commanding officer asks you from across the desk. It’s a month later, and you’re sitting across from him with one of your crutches laying across your lap. Your look accurately conveys how much you hate being here and how much you hate him.<br/>
“I need a reason?” You reply stiffly.<br/>
“Well…” The officer chuckles incredulously, thumbing through a file in front of him. “Forgive me, but it doesn’t exactly make sense to me. You were on one of the most high-profile cases of the past decade – and you lived to tell the tale. You’ve been decorated all sorts of ways, not to mention … your reputation precedes you everywhere you go. The whole force is buzzing about you. I mean – I just don’t get it. Why duck out now that you’ve gotten through the hardest part? Most cops would kill to be in the spot you’re in right now.”</p><p>	You think. You think about when, a handful of days before the heist, you and Larry went out for coffee in the morning. “Since we’re paired together, I figure I’d like to know the man whose life is in my hands… and vice versa.” He’d reasoned. It had made a cold stone form in the base of your throat. After all, this was a criminal… and your acting chops weren’t exactly golden. But you agreed. After all, this Mr. White seemed like a nice enough guy, not too talkative like Brown, not too mysterious like Blonde, and not too unfriendly like Pink. So, you drove in the car, chatting vaguely – unsure of what quite to talk about, what you were allowed to say, still keeping a small distance of suspicion between the two of you. </p><p>Soon, you pulled into the parking lot of the venue, got out of the car, and went in. White liked his coffee black – the irony of that made both of you chuckle a little – whereas you preferred a latte. You talked about movies and shows you'd seen recently, any books read (it made you laugh to admit that lately all you’d been reading were Marvel comics after White had confided he’d just finished rereading <i>Lord of the Flies</i>), before Larry got a little bolder.<br/>
“What are you going to do with your share?” White asks, gaze meeting yours with a kind, curious interest – yet with a sort of humorous conspiratorialism within them. “Any ideas yet?”<br/>
“Oh, I dunno.” Instinctively, your eyes dart downward and you stir the whipped cream in your coffee. “… Figure since this is so big I might just retire from the drug game. You know? I mean… why bust my ass if I’ve already got all I need?” A little nervously, you looked back up to gage White’s reaction, as if wondering if that were a correct answer.<br/>
There was something sad in the older man’s eyes now, and slowly, he nodded. “…yes. Well, that’s a good goal, Orange.” He said, and took a sip from his mug before adding, “…but if I know anything about this life, you won’t be out for long before you’re dragged back in.”<br/>
“Speaking from experience?” You dared to ask, brows quirking upward a little, knowing you were pushing it – that was a little too personal a question, but you genuinely wanted to know. </p><p>White just smiled at you. “— How about I get the check and we go see a movie?”</p><p>You’re looking at the commanding officer in front of you with the selfsame steel in your eyes, bringing your hand up to chew idly on your thumbnail, trying to pick your words carefully. (That was one thing this whole ordeal had left you with. Looking at someone else in the eyes and really thinking about you wanted them to know before you told them. Gaging every possible reaction they could have that might endanger you, that might give you away. You’re exhausted, but now, it was muscle memory.) “You really wanna know why?” You inquire.</p><p>“Yes.” The other replied, settling back in his chair, holding the guise of pure neutrality. </p><p>You lean forward a little bit, still thinking, and then began: “… y’know … when you’re a kid, you think cops are the shit. And you think becoming one will make you the shit.” You say, pause, and then continue: “My dad wanted me to be one. Really bad. He was one too back in the town we lived in before we moved here, and hell if I wanted to disappoint him. I wanted to be one too, anyways. You hear stories and you read comics about these people that save innocent civilians from people trying to hurt ‘em and you see how strong and confident and loved they are and you think … fuck, how can I do that too? How can I be like that, how can I – be that for people? And this job – this goddamn job, it was like – this was going to be my moment to be that. To work my ass off and for people to see me as that guy who really saved the fuckin’ day, I guess. But life isn’t a comic or a movie or whatever the hell I hoped it would be. I killed people, man.” Your voice gains an edge of anger as your throat constricts, and you scoots forward further to the edge of your chair, tapping your index finger down on the man’s desk for emphasis. “I <i>shot</i> an innocent woman. I killed her. And she shoulda fuckin’ killed me or else I wouldn’t have to be sittin’ here telling you about it. It’s not fun and games, the things you do every day in that goddamn uniform. The people you arrest, the people you hurt, the people you kill while you’re on the job –“</p><p>	(Thinking about Larry at the coffee shop, Larry at breakfast, Larry at the movies, Larry holding you tight while you’re crying like a baby and bleeding to death and telling you that there’s no way in hell that he’s going to let you die because we’re partners. We’re partners.) </p><p>“—they’re just … people, too, doing the things that they can, and in a second you could be them, too.” </p><p>	(Thinking about Larry’s gun pressed up against you cheek, against you temple, against the low groan in his throat as he stares at you and you apologize and you can see him thinking about killing you, and you can see the fact that he loves you, and you can see the look he gives you before the police gun him down for saving your life.)</p><p>The commanding officer scoffs, almost pityingly, an almost-smile curling his lips upward. “Fred… you’ve been thinking like a criminal for too long. Why don’t you really think about this?”</p><p>In a sharp thwap, you slap your badge down on the table, and pull out your gun and put that roughly down, too. You lean over the desk, look him coldly in the eyes, and say: “<i>Fuck. You.</i> I quit.” </p><p>And then you walk away, your crutches assisting you thanks to the dull, throbbing pain in your abdomen. You decided the second you saw that look in Larry’s eyes that you would never say the words “I’m a cop” with even a hint of pride again – and that you didn’t even want to ever say that again, not once. Not after that trust of the man that you had and then betrayed. Not after you went into this like it was some kind of game to get people to admire you and came out the other side with all of this – shit. Not after that woman in her car who looked at you for just a moment, saw you, and knew she had to make a flash decision or else. Not after all the blood you’ve seen and tasted, and for what? Some fucking diamonds? One big criminal out of a billion? You don’t look at the eyes of the people who now admire you as you make your way towards the elevator. You’ve lost all respect for them, as much as they’ve gained for you. They all had the ability to be as monstrous as you’ve been. </p><p>So, you leave. You don’t really feel like Freddy Newandyke anymore. You feel like Mr. Orange is maybe something you’ve always been, and is certainly something you’re going to be forever. Brown, White, Blonde, and Blue all died their respective colors. You will, too, sometime. For Larry’s sake.</p>
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